


a semi-charmed kind of life

by mikkey_bones



Series: Q&A [1]
Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Meet-Cute, Physical Disability, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smile she gives James is breathtaking. He's glad he dropped his cigarette a while ago; otherwise he'd probably be choking on smoke right now. “I'm Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”</p>
<p>“Nice to meet you,” James says, and holds out his hand for her to shake. “I'm—”</p>
<p>“Hey, Bucky! There you are!” he hears Steve say from the glass doors of the Greyhound station.</p>
<p>“<i>James</i>,” he says firmly as she shakes his hand. “I'm James.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a semi-charmed kind of life

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote a 15K word fic for a mini bang. Shout out to Mandy/[wendybirdx](wendybirdx.tumblr.com) on tumblr, who put up with me throughout the duration of this process and made absolutely _amazing_ art for it! Also, somehow, in spite of writing all of this, I haven't finished all the plot that I wanted to put in. So look for a sequel, and another collaboration by the two of us, coming soon!

James has just managed to land himself some sort of half-assed job as a cashier at the local Save-Rite when Steve calls and says he's coming to visit for the weekend, so could James and Aunt Rita please come to pick him up at the station and James tries, he tries _hard_ not to be jealous of his best friend who's skinny and asthmatic and short but still managed to get a job as a cartoonist because he's actually really fucking good and who could never lift weights or throw a football to save his life but at least he's still got—

Anyway. James says yeah, of course, took you long enough to get your ass back here, and they both laugh and that Friday afternoon he's at the Greyhound bus stop, leaning against the pickup truck while Aunt Rita goes inside to get Steve. He'd stayed outside to have a cigarette—Steve and Aunt Rita both hate it when he smokes, but he only really does it when he's nervous. Or alone. Or both, like now. And this will probably be his last chance to smoke in a while; Steve's asthma has gotten better but it's far from gone.

He's fishing a cigarette out of his pocket, holding it between his lips, and lighting it one-handed when he sees the woman come out of station. She's got red hair and is wearing all black and heels ( _heels_!) and James nearly chokes on smoke when their eyes meet and he tears his gaze away. He feels suddenly exposed: he's got three days' worth of stubble on his face and he's wearing an old flannel shirt with the sleeve pinned up sloppily over his left shoulder, because all he'd planned was to finish his laundry and mop the floor before heading down to Aunt Rita's place.

He's usually okay in public, but now, when he thinks about the way this woman probably sees him, his spine is prickling and his stump is starting to itch and burn. He feels unbalanced and _wrong_ , for the first time in weeks. He even wishes he'd worn his prosthesis, even though he usually goes without. It's too heavy and it's only there to make it look like he's got two working arms, at least from a distance.

James inhales from the cigarette, breathes out a cloud of smoke, and glances up again. The woman has stopped at the curb, maybe ten feet away from him, and she's got her phone out, frowning at it. Her hair is long and red and pinned up over one ear, and her jacket is leather. She's got a little silver suitcase, one of those smooth, hard plastic ones, standing at her side, and a cream-colored purse slung over her shoulder. She could be a model, he thinks, but what a model would be doing in this godforsaken town is beyond him.

She makes a frustrated noise. James looks away again. If she came on the same bus as Steve, which is likely, she's probably here all the way from New York, and still looking amazing even after an eight hour bus ride.

He's smoking the cigarette way too fast and he wishes Steve and Aunt Rita would hurry up. What's taking them so long?

“Excuse me?”

James startles and nearly overbalances. Face heating, he looks up to see that the woman has taken a few steps closer. “Yeah?” he says automatically and realizes he's probably coming off as rude. In a friendlier tone, he adds, “What can I do for you?”

She gives a wry smile. Her lipstick is red too, though a deeper shade than her hair. It's actually a perfect shade for her; James has always been the kind of person who notices these things. “Do you happen to know how far Hampton Street is from here?”

“A ways,” James replies automatically as he thinks. “It's across the freeway, first of all, and then you have to go north, past the center of town.”

Her perfectly-colored lips twist in a slight frown, and she takes a few steps closer, holding out her phone for him. “Can you show me? I've got Google Maps up.” She hesitates slightly, realizing what she just asked and why it might be difficult. “I mean—”

“Don't worry about it,” James says, though he still feels hot and embarrassed under her regard. It wouldn't be easy but if he'd worn his prosthesis—which is, in general, useless and heavy and remains in his closet—he would have at least been able to prop up the iPhone himself while he gave directions. “Just hold it out for me.” He reaches over to zoom out the map, stepping a little bit closer to the woman so they can both see the screen. “Right now we're here, south of the freeway, and Hampton Street is...” He zooms out a little bit more, scrolls the map down to go north, and zooms in again. “All the way over here. That's where you're staying?”

“For the moment,” she replies in a dry tone, pulling the phone closer to herself to squint at the map. James can tell there's a story there, but he doesn't want to ask. “The man at the counter told me there weren't any buses that go from here to downtown, either.”

She's looking at him like she wants him to say the guy was wrong, but he wasn't. James shakes his head. “There aren't any buses at all, really.” Technically, there is a bus system, but the routes are so far apart and the buses so poorly scheduled that it's a real pain to use. That's one of those things James remembers talking about with Dr. Xavier, back when he was still getting used to life as a one-armed guy in a town that never really took the Americans with Disabilities Act seriously.

She makes that frustrated expression again, twisting up her lips, and says, “I suppose I'll have to order a taxi, then. Thanks, though.”

“No problem,” James says automatically, and watches her step away, tapping on her phone. Probably looking up the number of a taxi company, he thinks, and before he can talk himself out of it, he says, “We could give you a ride over to Hampton, if you want.”

She looks up in surprise and he realizes anew what kind of person she must be seeing. Certainly not one to inspire confidence in a woman as pretty and obviously alone as she is. But James has always had a certain—well, it's no white knight attitude, not like Steve, but a certain _soft spot_ for people who clearly need help. (And for beautiful women; today's his lucky day.) So he soldiers on. “My aunt's inside, getting my friend, but we've got enough room in the truck for you, too. And we're heading over to that side of town anyway.”

“Your aunt?” the woman asks, and James doesn't want to know what she thought he was doing standing here in the first place. “I—” She looks down at her phone, clearly torn, then, with a decisive movement, sticks it back into her purse. “Sure, if it's not too much trouble.” The smile she gives James is breathtaking. He's glad he dropped his cigarette a while ago; otherwise he'd probably be choking on smoke right now. “I'm Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

“Nice to meet you,” James says, and holds out his hand for her to shake. “I'm—”

“Hey, Bucky! There you are!” he hears Steve say from the glass doors of the station.

“ _James,_ ” he says firmly as she shakes his hand. “I'm James.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him, looking amused, but then he's being tackled into a hug that uses all of Steve's wiry strength. He laughs, feeling most of his discomfort melt away, and slaps Steve on the back.

“It's been a while,” Steve says, muffled, into his flannel shirt.

“Whose fault is that?” James retorts, poking him. “You're just as short as you used to be, too. Knew you weren't eating your vegetables.”

Steve laughs and finally lets go, taking a step back. New York has been good to him; there's something more mature in his angular face. And he's ditched the mohawk and that stupid eyebrow piercing, though he kept the nose ring. James reminds himself to bug him about that later. “You've got more hair than I remember,” he points out. “Lose your razor again?”

“Shut up. What the hell took you so long?”

Aunt Rita, slower than Steve, walks up to them. “We had a bit of an accident.”

“Forgot my bag was unzipped and spilled everything,” Steve elaborates. “Hey, Natasha,” he adds, turning to Natasha as if noticing her for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

James takes Steve's bag from Aunt Rita and hefts it into the back of the pickup truck. “You two know each other?” he asks, and for the wildest moment he thinks _what if they're dating_ and _what if this is Steve's girlfriend he brought as a surprise_ even though it's stupid, if only because Steve would never impose on Aunt Rita like that.

“We chatted on the bus,” Natasha says, looking just uncomfortable enough that James remembers the situation.

“I told her we could give her a ride,” he says, looking at Aunt Rita. “To Hampton Street, or nearby, at least. She doesn't have a way to get there.”

“I could call a taxi, if it's too much trouble,” Natasha interjects. “I don't mind.”

“Oh no,” Aunt Rita says and she's already got that look in her eye, the one that says she's determined to help whether you like it or not. She had that same expression after Steve's mom's funeral, and James's dad's funeral, and the first day she dragged James to physical therapy. “It's no trouble. I need some company to get me away from these rowdy boys.”

Steve and James exchange a long-suffering look, the effect of which is rather ruined by Steve snorting with laughter. Even James grins, and he takes Natasha's bag and puts it (carefully) in the back of the pickup truck before she can protest.

“So you're Natasha? Call me Rita. Or Ms. Barnes if you really have to,” Aunt Rita says and opens the passenger door of the pickup truck so that Natasha can climb in. She looks out of place against the worn cloth seats and grungy plastic interior. But she doesn't look uncomfortable.

James realizes he's staring like an idiot when Steve punches him in his good shoulder. “Come on,” he says, and clambers up into the back. James follows and reaches for the seat belt. He fumbles the first two times trying to buckle up (over the shoulder seat belts have never been his friends), but Steve, if he notices, doesn't try to help. It's not like how things used to be, at the beginning, thank God.

The car starts with a jolt and a shudder. Natasha, in the front, is telling Aunt Rita about her trip, about her job as a software engineer for a New York startup. “But I just got laid off,” she says with another unhappy twist of her mouth.

A software engineer, James thinks, along with _wow_ and _wow_ again, for good measure. Still listening to the conversation up front, he nudges Steve, who looks at him. He glances significantly towards Natasha, then back to Steve, raising his eyebrows.

It's an old code, from back before high school even, not that it's difficult to figure out. Steve blinks, laughs, and shakes his head, then raises his eyebrows emphatically at James.

James glances at Natasha again, this time looking at the way her red hair falls down onto her shoulder, the way her leather jacket perfectly follows the lines of her arm. He stares until he catches her watching him through the rearview mirror, then, slightly embarrassed, looks away.

“Well?” Steve murmurs, and the bastard has a knowing look on his face and is trying to hide a smirk.

“Shut up,” James replies because it's better than _I don't know_ and less pathetic than _I want to but I'm scared_.

Steve chuckles and turns to look out the window, and James listens to Natasha and Aunt Rita talking quietly in front of him for the rest of the ride.

\- - -

Steve's visit passes quickly—too quickly, almost, and before James realizes, it's Monday afternoon and they're dropping him back at the Greyhound station. He tells Steve goodbye with mixed feelings. Having him back feels _right_ , makes things a lot less lonely than his life usually is. Steve's his best friend, after all.

At the same time, though, hanging out with Steve makes James even more aware that things can't go back to what they used to be, that the old Bucky can never come back, no matter how much he and Steve wish things could be different. By the time Steve hugs him, the air between them is heavy with all the things they haven't said and all the conversations they've been tiptoeing around for the past three days. Or, rather, for the past seven years.

Seven years, five months, and twenty-three days. Not that James is keeping track, or anything.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Steve says, and behind his words is everything that he's not saying.

“Same to you,” James replies, reaching out with a heavy hand and ruffling Steve's hair. “Don't get into too much trouble. And ditch the piercing, will you?”

“I'll think about it, if you come visit me,” Steve replies.

James rolls his eyes. “And until then, you're gonna walk around looking like a reject from Greenday or something. Got it, got it,” he retorts. Steve has been trying to get James to visit him for years. James has only taken him up on his offer once. It's always too easy to say that he's got other things to do (like a _job_ , one that's not freelance or whatever Steve does) or that he's trying but schedules aren't working out...

At one point in his life he would have killed to go up to New York and mess around for a couple of days. They both know this.

Steve laughs anyway. “Shut up,” he says, and then, earnestly, “I'm serious about the visiting thing.”

“Yeah,” James says. “I'm working on it.”

Steve gives him a look, one of those looks that says _I see through your act and I'm gonna let you get away with it this time, but if you ever want to talk about it know that I'm here for you_. By now James is used to those looks from just about everyone except Dr. Xavier, who always came right out and asked the questions, even the hard ones that James didn't know how to answer. That was one of the reasons he'd liked the guy so much.

“I'll try and come up in a few months,” James says, because if those looks are good at anything it's to make him feel a bit guilty. And then he pats Steve on the shoulder. “Aunt Rita's waiting. You had better get going. Unless you wanna miss your bus.”

Steve grins, appeased by James's half-promise. “Yeah, alright,” he says, and hits James lightly on the arm. “Good luck.”

“Same to you. Have fun in the big city,” James replies, only half sarcastic. And then he's watching Steve's back, his skinny, hunched shoulders, as his best friend walks into the station.

He's glad Steve is doing well for himself. He tries not to be jealous. And—the thought hits him so suddenly that he's a little surprised—he wonders what Natasha's doing right now. Whether she's still in town. Whether she's taking the same bus back, and he's just missed her arrival by a few minutes.

That would be pretty typical of his entire life, James thinks. No matter what, he's probably never going to see her again.

So it's fate, or it must be, when he's working the register at Save-Rite on Thursday afternoon and he sees her walk into the store. Or at least, he sees a red-haired woman walk through the automatic doors before someone else tries to run out with a bottle of some kind of liquor under their arm and the store alarm starts blaring and all hell breaks loose.

James is about to run after the guy when he sees his fellow cashier, Pietro, bolt towards the parking lot in pursuit. Considering that Pietro's actually some kind of seventeen year old track star, from Aunt Rita tells him, James lets him go, figuring it's best if someone stays to man the registers anyway.

He's all but forgotten the red-haired woman, and he's craning his neck to watch through the glass doors as Pietro and Nick Fury, their manager, confront the shoplifter, when someone clears their throat in front of him.

It's Natasha.

James blushes, snapping back to attention. “Uh, hi,” he says. She's holding a bouquet of flowers—snapdragons, not roses, James notes, though what that could mean is beyond him—and two bottles of white wine. And she's not wearing lipstick, this time.

“Hello again, James,” Natasha says with another one of her wry smiles, and he's momentarily pleased that she remembers him—as the one-armed weirdo from the bus station, James reminds himself brutally when he sees Natasha's gaze flick to his empty left sleeve as she places her items on the conveyor belt.

He scans the flowers first. The bouquet isn't cheap. “How've you been?” he asks, then adds, “And I hate to ask, but I've gotta see your ID before I can scan these,” he adds, gesturing to the bottles of wine.

“I've been alright,” Natasha says, pulling out her driver's license and handing it over. It's from the state of New York. _Natalia Alexandra Romanoff_ , James reads, and then checks her age. She's twenty-six. He's obscurely relieved.

He hands it back. “Enjoying your stay here?”

She shrugs. “It's not bad, I suppose. Though this place is smaller than I thought. There's not much to do.”

“You're telling me,” James replies dryly as he scans the wine she picked—also not cheap. He wonders what she's buying this for, what her plans are tonight. But he doesn't want to come off as nosy or creepy. “There's swing dancing and two-step at Marley's Pub on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he says instead. “It can be fun. Last time I went, there weren't _too_ many old people. Want a bag?”

“Sure,” Natasha says, laughing a little, so he places both wine bottles in a plastic Save-Rite sack. She's pulling out a card, so James turns on the PIN pad and lets her pay. “Do you like dancing?”

James shrugs, a gesture he tries not to make too often, because he feels like the gesture looks strange when he makes it. “Sometimes,” he says. “I guess. I used to like it a lot more, back in high school.”

Natasha gives him a look that verges on pity but doesn't quite get there, for which James is grateful. “I see,” she says. Maybe she does. “So there's no chance that I can convince you to take me there?”

“What?” James asks, nearly dropping the receipt he's about to hand her, and he must look absolutely shocked, because Natasha's smile fades.

“I mean, I'm really asking because you're really the only person I know here, besides my old foster dad,” she says hastily, and there's another story _there_ but, again, James doesn't ask. He's too busy trying backtrack and figure out _what_ just happened. And how to go back in time to not fuck it up.

“No, no, no, it's cool,” he says, trying and failing not to sound desperate. “I—honestly, I'm pretty sure you don't want to go dancing with me,” he says with a crooked grin. “It can be a little challenging. But if you want to get lunch or, or coffee sometime, you know, just say the word.”

He's a stammering mess. He'd be aware of that even if Natasha wasn't giving him a look that was almost a smirk. But instead of taking the opportunity to tease him, she says, “I'd like that, actually. When are you free? I've got nothing but free time, really.”

Tomorrow's Friday. James thinks. “I'm free after two-thirty,” he says. His shift at Save-Rite ends at two but he wants to give himself enough time to change and freshen up.

“Three, then?” Natasha says. “Sounds like a date. But you'll have to tell me a good place to get coffee. All I know is Starbucks; and I think the baristas are getting tired of me sitting there on my laptop all day.”

“There's a cute place down the street,” James suggests and refuses to allow himself to all ponder the possible meanings of the word 'date'. The bakery somewhere he never goes unless Aunt Rita is craving strawberry-rhubarb pie, which happens about once every three months. He's seen people going there to eat and have coffee, though, and it _seems_ nice. “Shooting Star Bakery. It's pretty easy to find.”

“Alright,” Natasha says with a smile. “What—”

“Barnes!” Fury snaps from over near the entrance, where he's standing with Pietro. James's head snaps up guiltily. “We've been waiting for you to finish up for five minutes, now. Staff meeting.”

James flushes and looks helplessly at Natasha. “Er,” he says.

She gathers her bag. “Don't worry about it,” she says and slips James a piece of paper. “Just text me if there's a change in plans, alright?”

James opens up his mouth to say that he doesn't have her number, but Natasha's already sweeping out the door, and when he looks at the paper she handed him, it's a business card:

_Natasha Romanoff, Software Design Specialist_  
EnCode, Inc.  
_(570)-646-8179_ _  
_ n.romanoff@encode.com

“ _Barnes_ ,” Fury says again, forcefully, and James shoves the card into his pocket and hurries over for the meeting. And even though Fury grumbles at him about punctuality and vigilance and we've got better things do to than watch you flirt with all your pretty customers, Barnes, he can't wipe the stupid smile off his face.

\- - -

_She's taller than Steve by a few good inches, James notes, now they're standing close enough that he can make the comparison._

\- - -

3:05 p.m. Natasha's wearing that lipstick again, the dark red one that frames her mouth perfectly and somehow doesn't clash with her hair. She wasn't wearing it at Save-Rite but she's wearing it today. James wants that to mean something. It probably doesn't.

He'd gotten here ten minutes ago and perched awkwardly at one of the outside tables to smoke a cigarette, which he finished too fast (again); when he sees her walk up, he waves and stands.

She smiles. “Sorry I'm late. Phone call.”

“Don't worry about it,” James says, holding open the door for her. As she walks through he can't help but glance down her body—today she's wearing the same black leather jacket, but she's paired it with jeans and ankle boots. No heels. He wonders if _that_ means something.

It probably means that she wanted to be comfortable while going to a _casual_ bakery for a _casual_ time sitting and talking with the only person in town she knows, James tells himself harshly, because if anything, he's just Natasha's way of dealing with boredom, and he gets that.

Anyway, the bakery smells like sweets and coffee and freshly-baked bread and James gets to watch Natasha close her eyes and take a deep breath. He hadn't realized she was tense, but her relaxation is obvious now in the way that her shoulders drop a little and her hands unclench a little.

“You can't look that happy here until you at least try the food,” James points out, grinning a little in spite of himself.

Natasha opens her eyes again and turns to give him that wry smile. She's taller than Steve by a few good inches, James notes, now they're standing close enough that he can make the comparison. “If their food tastes as good as it smells, I'm sure I'll have no complaints,” she says.

The bakery's not crowded. Most adults are still at work, James imagines, and since it's spring break for the district schools, they don't have to worry about the place getting inundated with schoolchildren at three-thirty. They're the only people waiting to order at the counter.

“You first,” Natasha tells him.

James orders a regular coffee and a slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie—which, he realizes belatedly, might make him look kind of like a hick, but it's the only thing from this place he's tried before and he knows it's delicious.

Natasha also gets coffee and, after a moment's hesitation, chooses a large chocolate chip and pecan brownie. It's about as big as James's slice of pie and looks about as delicious. And she brushes off James's offer to pay for her. “Don't worry about it,” she tells him as she hands the cashier a ten dollar bill. “I may be jobless, but I've got a fair amount saved up.”

That wasn't exactly why James was offering to pay, and Natasha probably knows it.

“Let's sit there,” she says, holding her plate and her coffee, and gestures to a table in the opposite corner of the bakery.

James places his plate on top of his coffee mug and picks up the mug—it looks ridiculous, but is more efficient than making two trips. “Sure,” he says, and follows her, though he stops at the self-serve station to pour cream and sugar into his coffee. Natasha passes it by without a second glance.

“You take your coffee black?” James asks when he joins her at the table. He'd grabbed forks too, and he hands one to her.

“Yes,” Natasha replies. “It's easier than trying to find creamer or keep a bottle of milk in the fridge, and I like the taste. It's _horrible_ for your teeth though, you know.”

James glances up at her mouth. “Your teeth look fine to me,” he comments.

Natasha laughs. “I have them whitened, believe me,” she says.

James chuckles and stirs his coffee, realizing suddenly and vertiginously that he has no idea what to do or say next. He used to be good at charming people, at holding up his end of a conversation. But those kinds of skills go away without practice and since Becca went off to college the only person he talks to regularly, really regularly in person is his Aunt Rita. He tries not to start panicking. It's only a disaster, he thinks, if you make it a disaster—though that advice rings awfully hollow.

“So,” Natasha says, breaking the silence that suddenly stretches awkwardly between them. “Did you grow up here? I kind of got that impression.”

The question is stupid and clearly an icebreaker but James is pathetically, stupidly grateful for it. “Yeah, born and raised,” he replies. “Well, raised, at least, for most of my life. Long enough that I know exactly how boring it is here.”

Natasha laughs. “I've only been here a week and I'm already getting that impression. I guess I can see why Ivan—my foster dad, I mean—wanted to retire here. He told me he likes the peace and quiet.” She wrinkles her nose.

“But you don't,” James replies, and he can feel the rhythm of the conversation returning to him. He's rusty, yeah, but not a completely lost cause. “I don't know how long you plan to stay, but it can get exciting sometimes. Think the Fourth of July, county fair, homecoming...” he teases, and is rewarded when he sees Natasha's expression of horror and dismay.

“County fair? _Seriously_?” she asks.

James laughs. “I mean, they're _trying_ to make this place cool. There's an art festival that goes on in the summer, when all the people from upstate come down and sell their work. And in the fall we get a lot of tourists, you know, for the leaves.”

“For the _leaves_ ,” Natasha repeats dejectedly, taking a sip of her coffee like she's working her way through a pint at a bar. James wonders if she drinks. He does, sometimes, though he generally sticks to beer, and never gets drunk alone. That's a recipe for disaster. “What do people _do_ here?”

“I dunno, work?” James suggests. “Though I don't know what kind of opportunities there are for a software design specialist.”

Natasha snorts. It’s oddly endearing. “You read my business card? It's a bunch of bullshit, really. All I did was run through other people's code for hours and hours, fixing the mistakes and streamlining the design.” James must look as lost as he feels, because she adds, “Think copyediting, only with less interesting stuff to read. It wasn't ideal. If they hadn't laid me off I would probably have quit within a few weeks.” She shrugs.

“I don't know anything about computers,” James says. “But I can figure how that'd be boring.”

“It certainly wasn't my dream job when I was a little kid,” Natasha replies and laughs, cutting into the brownie with her fork.

“What was?” James asks, suddenly curious. He's all but forgotten about his own slice of pie. “Your dream job, I mean.”

Natasha takes a bite, chews, thinks. James tries not to stare at her lips; he probably fails. “I wanted to be an astronaut,” she replies finally. “And a ballerina.”

James grins. “'And'?” he repeats. “Not 'or'?”

Natasha laughs. “I'm ambitious,” she says. “What about you? Childhood dream job.”

“A firefighter,” James replies immediately. “Or a Power Ranger. I was really into all that kung fu stuff too. A ninja spy?”

“And you're trying to make fun of me for wanting to be a space ballerina,” Natasha retorts, laughing again. “I think that's more realistic than a firefighting ninja Power Ranger.”

“Oh yeah? Get back to me once you've performed Swan Lake on the ISS. But I might be too busy fighting Rita Repulsa in a burning building. With nunchucks. While rescuing kittens. You know. All in a day's work,” James replies, and he knows he's being absolutely ridiculous but he can't get enough of the way Natasha's nose scrunches up when she laughs.

“Right, of course, sure,” Natasha says, and covers her mouth as she laughs once again. “So what's your dream job now, then?” she continues, still grinning, then visibly freezes, glancing down at James's left shoulder like she's afraid she's reminding him of things he's lost and can't ever get back. Which is true, in a sense, but James has had seven years to get over himself.

Still, it's got to come out sooner or later, James thinks, and his stump feels itchy and hot again under her gaze. He resists the urge to rub the scar tissue—that makes people uncomfortable too—and blurts, “Car crash.” It comes out too blunt, too abrupt for the flow of their conversation, jarring it out of an atmosphere of childhood fantasy and bringing it back to the present with a snap and a crunch.

Natasha blinks and frowns. James winces. “I mean, that's what happened to my arm,” he says, fumbling to get back to some kind of normal conversation rhythm. “I figured—people are so awkward about asking, and I thought I should just...” he attempts lamely, realizing he's not making much, if any, sense. And just when the conversation was starting to get comfortable, too. Dr. Xavier had pointed out his self-sabotaging tendencies years ago, and James had thought he'd gotten better, but obviously he was being too optimistic. He sighs. “Sorry.”

“No, I—,” Natasha fumbles. “It's fine.” She looks about as awkward as James, which makes him feel even worse.

“I know, but I figure I'd rather just get it out,” he says, and gives a one-shouldered shrug. He's more than ever aware of the strangely empty space at the end of his other shoulder. “Most people here know already, but you're new...”

Natasha nods and gives him an expectant look, clearly waiting for him to continue.

“That's really it,” James says in response to her silence. He didn't want to tell some kind of sob story, but he was the one who turned the conversation this way, so maybe he did. It's not often that he has someone to talk to who hasn't already heard the story or read it in his medical files. He takes a breath. “Senior year of high school, driving home at night, the other car didn't stop at the four-way stop sign and T-boned me at full speed. I've had seven years to get over it.” His tone is so light that it sounds forced. “And the crash killed her. I guess you could say _I_ got lucky.”

Natasha's wince is gone in a second, more of a flicker of an expression than anything, but James is accustomed to watching closely, and he doesn't miss it.

“Sorry,” he repeats. “This... isn't really bakery conversation, is it.” He can feel the atmosphere getting heavier around them, and when he tries to take a sip of his coffee to distract himself, it's gone cold.

“No, I—” Natasha begins awkwardly, poking at the dissected remains of her brownie. Then she looks up to meet his eyes. “That sucks. I'm sorry.”

James gives another one-shouldered shrug. “You get used to it. That's what everybody told me. And it's true, more or less.” He grins at her crookedly, like a peace offering. “And you'll be surprised how many things you can still do with only one hand. I mean, my promising career as a classical pianist is out the window, but hey, the only person who ever thought I'd be good at _that_ was my Aunt Rita.”

Natasha looks like she's trying to keep a straight face, but she can't, not really, and ends up laughing. “Do you use that as a pick-up line?” she asks. “Not the part about the piano, I mean, but about being good with one hand?”

“I—” James begins, then flushes. “Oh, God. Do you _want_ me to be single for the rest of my life?”

“I'm surprised you're single right now, actually,” Natasha replies with that little twist of her lips that's almost a smirk.

“I hate to break it to you, but dating prospects in this town are pretty slim,” James points out, because he doesn't want to think about what Natasha means by that comment. “Or maybe, since I refuse to date anyone I went to high school with, my standards are too high.”

Natasha laughs again. “Are there a lot of people from your high school that still live here?”

James thinks about it, then shrugs. “More than a few. But they're not the kind of people I'd wanna hang out with, and I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me.” It's... surprising, actually, in a good way, how easily they can find the rhythm of their conversation again. James wants to think it's something special between him and Natasha. In reality, it's probably because his social skills are less rusty than he likes to believe.

Natasha nods. “I get it,” she says. “Most of the people I went to high school with, I wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole. Not because they're bad people, even. I just don't want to see them look surprised about what happened to Nat 'Brace-Face' Romanoff after she graduated."

"You had braces?" James asks and laughs incredulously. He can't imagine it, though she must have gotten her perfect teeth from somewhere.

"That's between you and me, big boy," Natasha says, leaning in and giving him a conspiratorial look, and James is so taken by her gaze that he doesn't even interrogate whether this nickname is gently mocking him or a term of endearment or maybe (yeah right) Natasha _actually_ flirting with him. And before he can begin to dissect what just happened, Natasha is already leaning back, taking a sip of her coffee and making a face. "It's cold."

James latches on gratefully to the new topic. "Mine too," he says. "Want more? I can get us refills."

Natasha looks like she's seriously considering it, then shakes her head. "I shouldn't," she says and looks genuinely regretful. "I'm not in school anymore, and I don't want to be up all night with my hands shaking, you know." She extends her hand halfway across the table, holding it flat a few inches above the surface. James can see a slight tremor in her fingers. "Afternoon coffee. Always gets me. But I drink it anyway."

This is the part where, if James were smooth or confident, he would reach out with his own hand, take hers, close the distance between them, and say something both devastatingly witty and charmingly flirtatious. But he's not smooth or confident or anything really, and when he even thinks about flirting the words die on his tongue, so he lets the moment pass. "We've all gotta have our vices," he says instead, giving her a crooked grin because he can't offer her his hand. "Mine's smoking. Two cigarettes once a week. Or energy drinks. They're part of my weekly budget now."

Natasha relaxes her hand, lets it fall back down onto the table, where her fingers curl loosely next to her fork. "Oh no, don't even start with the energy drinks," she says. "Back at my work, you know, before I got laid off, we got them for free. There was a whole fridge full. It was bad."

James laughs. "No way. I mean, we have a fridge full of energy drinks at my work, but those are for the customers," he jokes. "I can't believe they'd do that for you."

"Tech industry," Natasha says, shrugging and grinning at him. "You'd be surprised, the amount of free stuff we got. In college, too. There was this one time," she begins, and James watches her mouth, and her perfectly chosen lipstick, as she launches into the story of bringing back enough leftover pizza from a career fair to feed her apartment for a week.

That makes James think of the time they found out Steve was allergic to pineapples—eating Hawaiian pizza at Sam Wilson's house during his twelfth birthday party sleepover—and he tells Natasha the whole stupid story, including the part where he and Sam insisted on coming with Steve and brought the pizza box in the car with them so they could keep eating on the way to the hospital.

And before James can even wonder at how absolutely easy it is to talk with her, they've already moved on to favorite movies. Natasha's addicted to Chinese cinema and kung fu movies. James has a real soft spot for Hollywood's Golden Age, and has the complete box set of James Bond movies. They both love _Kill Bill_.

"But I haven't seen it in a while," Natasha tells him. "And I like marathoning it, you know. Volume one, then volume two." She hums the film's whistled musical motif.

James grins. "That's the only way to watch it, obviously. I actually bought both DVDs a while back, when I was on eBay too late at night. If you want," he begins, and then stops short. Natasha's not someone like Steve or Sam, someone he can just invite to his apartment whenever they're in town. And this is really only their third meeting. Would it be appropriate to ask, or would she take it the wrong way.

Natasha tilts her head slightly to the side, regarding him with curiosity. "If I want what?" she asks.

It's okay, James tells himself. Natasha isn't the type of person who would get up and walk out on him for a question posed in the wrong way. And, maybe... He doesn't want to over-interpret her actions, but she seems interested. In being friends with him, at least, if nothing more. "If you want to come hang out and my place and watch them with me," he blurts.

There's a pause in which James steels himself for rejection, but Natasha is evidently just trying to figure out what he said, because when she understands, she smiles. "That sounds fun," she replies. "In fact, that sounds like the most fun thing we could do here. When? You know I'm free all the time."

James catches himself before he can breathe a sigh of relief out loud and look even more like an idiot. “Tuesday?" he suggests. "Tuesday night. I get off work at seven."

"Eight, then?" Natasha suggests. "We can eat together too," she adds, and then hesitates. "If you won't have eaten already, I mean."

"No, I, I'd love to eat with you," James says and kicks himself for sounding too eager. "We can order pizza. If you want."

"You know that I love pizza," Natasha replies and grins. "I like that. Sounds like a date."

Not for the first time, James finds himself stopping short against the word 'date', trying to figure out what exactly Natasha means when she uses it. And what exactly he wants it to mean when she uses it. "Right," he replies, and is pulled out of the conversation enough to glance around the bakery. He realizes two things simultaneously: first, that he hasn't taken a single bite of his pie the entire time that they've been talking, and secondly, that the entire sitting room has slowly emptied out until the two of them are the only ones that are left, and the cashier at the front is casting slightly impatient looks in their direction. He wants to laugh. "What time is it?"

Natasha frowns and pulls out her phone. "Five fifty-four; why?"

"This place closes at six," James replies in a low voice, and Natasha, who was sitting with her back to the rest of the room, turns to look around them.

When she turns back to James, she's laughing. “We accidentally stayed until closing? I've _never_ done that before.”

“Probably because no cafe in a decent-sized town closes as early as this one,” James points out dryly, still talking quietly so the staff won't hear him. But he's obscurely pleased. And he can't believe that they've been talking for three hours.

“Still,” Natasha replies and stands, grabbing her empty plate and half-full coffee cup. She looks at James's food. “You didn't even eat your pie. Not a fan?”

“I got distracted,” James says and offers her a crooked grin. It's flirtation, if you squint, but he doesn't think Natasha's looking that hard. “Nothing against the pie, trust me.” And before she can offer to help he puts his plate on top of his mug again and carries them both to the area where guests are supposed to leave their dirty dishes.

Natasha follows along behind him. “Well, next time, I'll make sure you eat your food,” she says, and James is pleased and maybe a little surprised that she's assuming there is actually going to be a next time here.

“Thanks for coming,” he says as they exit the bakery. Behind them, through the windows, he can see the staff pointedly beginning to stack up chairs and sweep the floor.

Natasha grins up at him, hands in her pockets. “Thanks for inviting me,” she says, and doesn't exactly make a move to walk away. They're standing face to face, looking at each other, and this is the part, James imagines, where he leans down and kisses her. If he was still the type of guy who would kiss a girl after a first date. If this was even a date. There's even a slight pause in their conversation, during which James is slowly trying not to panic, and then Natasha says, “So, see you Tuesday?”

“Yeah,” James says. “Yeah,” and he grins slowly as Natasha gives him a little wave and walks away.

\- - -

“ _Calm down, Bucky_." Steve's voice comes a little staticky through the phone's speakers, and his tone is that patient drawl that James finds simultaneously annoying and oddly calming. Annoying, because shit, he's not five years old, and calming, because shit, it's Steve, and it's almost like things are back to the way they can never be again. " _She already seems to like you a lot. I really think it's going to be fine._ "

James is collapsed on the couch, wearing a clean flannel shirt and jeans and socks and balancing the phone on forehead, so he has his hand free to pick absently at some loose threads in his couch's ancient upholstery. He's belatedly realizing he should have called Sam in L.A. instead of Steve in New York. Even though he visits less often, he's better at the whole 'giving advice to his best friends without being condescending' thing, which is more than James can say for Steve. "Last I checked, anxiety wasn't exactly a rational emotion," he points out dryly.

" _Yeah, but last I checked you were pretty suave and handsome and plenty of girls liked you_."

"Seriously? And when was this?"

" _Shut up_ ," Steve says, and James is gratified, in an increasingly annoyed way, that he didn't take the bait. " _I know you're nervous, but Natasha seems like someone who can handle herself. And if you fuck it up—though I don't see how that would be possible—I'm sure you two can work things out. Somehow. Probably_."

James sighs and presses a knuckle into the bridge of his nose, only stopping when his movement threatens to upset the phone. "Thanks," he says sarcastically. "You sure know how to cheer a guy up." He is feeling a little better, though. Steve has that weird effect on people.

" _Anytime_ ," Steve replies in a tone of airy cheerfulness. When did he get to be such a little shit? James wonders to himself. But Steve has always been like this. " _So what's your plan—_ "

James doesn't hear the rest of Steve's question because at that moment his apartment doorbell rings, and he nearly catapults his Blackberry across the room as he sits bolt upright, remembering to grab his phone at the last moment. "Shit," he says, pressing it to his ear. He didn't realize it was already eight. Or maybe Natasha's early. Or maybe it's not Natasha at all. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

" _Text me how it goes_ ," Steve says. James is already up and at the door. He hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket before opening it.

"Hi," Natasha says. Today she's wearing a thigh-length black coat, leggings, and those same black boots from the bakery—along with the same dark red lipstick. Her hair is twisted into a bun on the top of her head and a gray knitted scarf is wrapped around her neck. She's holding a paper bag from the convenience store down the street. James takes in all the details in about a second and forces himself not to try to arrange them to make some sort of meaning in his head.

"Hi," he says, a beat too late, and steps aside to let her in.

"I hope I'm not too early," she says, smiling at him. "I was worried I'd get lost, and the cashier at the Seven-Eleven kept eyeing me like he was going to ask me out or accuse me of shoplifting, and I figured you'd be here . Better this than waiting in my car, right?" She toes off her boots.

"Can I get that bag for you?" James asks. Not that he'd be any better at holding it than her—he'd probably be worse—but it's the thought that counts.

“I'm good,” Natasha says lightly. “It's just a coke, some whiskey, and a six-pack of beer.” Her socks are black with white stripes. “You... Do you drink?” she adds, suddenly awkward. “I realize I could have asked, but I sort of just assumed.”

James can think of several possible responses to that question and all of them are mostly true. He settles with, “Sometimes,” and a one-shouldered shrug. "Not by myself."

"Then you're a stronger person than I am," Natasha replies dryly. "Where can I put this?"

"Kitchen," James says and leads her to the small kitchen area, glad that he had time yesterday to clean. He even scrubbed the countertop, where Natasha is currently placing the contents of the bag.

"This is my favorite beer," she says, pulling out the six-pack of glass bottles... of Corona. "And before you make any jokes about me being a middle-aged dad or a pretentious frat boy, trust me, I know. And I've heard them before." Then she pulls out the whiskey—a small bottle of Jack Daniels—and a liter of Coca-Cola. "Whiskey and Coke is pretty universal, right?"

James shrugs. "Don't ask me. I missed the whole college binge drinking experience, apparently," and the teasing humor in his voice elicits a smile of acknowledgment from Natasha. She bought a realistic amount of liquor, he thinks with appreciation. They'll get buzzed, maybe a little drunk, but it won't be messy. Not like the times when Steve and Sam came home from college and wanted to hang out. "But I do like whiskey."

"I'm a vodka girl," Natasha says. "But only because I'm too old to handle a night of tequila shots anymore." Her grin is wide and conspiratorial and James imagines her downing shots in some dark, strobe-lit bar, the type of scene he would probably be into if he had grown into the type of person who had a scene. "I'll start with beer, I think."

Wordlessly, James opens one of his kitchen drawers and hands her the simple bottle opener that he likes to use. "Crack one open for me, too, will you? I'm gonna order pizza. Unless you want something else?"

Natasha opens one bottle. The cap falls to the counter with a metallic noise. "I would never say no to pizza with my booze," she responds, opening the other bottle. As James calls Domino's Pizza (the number is in the contacts on his phone) he watches the way opening a beer bottle requires a combined movement of wrist and elbow. When he drinks, James usually sticks with cans. Opening bottles is a fairly complicated process involving the counter, his hip, and a CUNY beer koozie, courtesy of Steve, because glass bottles have an awful tendency to slip and fall on the ground if you don't have a good grip on them with your hand. Cans are much more forgiving.

He orders a Hawaiian pizza in honor of Steve, not because he particularly likes it, and a sausage and mushroom and olive pizza because he remembers Natasha telling him, offhandedly, that it was her favorite kind. She salutes him with her bottle. "I didn't think you'd remember."

"I've got a pretty good memory," James says, hanging up. "For the important things, anyway, and what's more important than pizza?" As far as jokes go, it's lame, but Natasha laughs anyway, and that's gratifying. "Do you wanna start the movie now or wait until we're good and tipsy?"

Natasha thinks. "The second option is tempting," she replies. "But liquor notwithstanding, I don't think I'm going to get too drunk. I'll have to sober up if I want to drive home, anyway.”

She said _if_ , not _when_ , James thinks, but shoves that thought down to the back of his mind and tries his best to forget about it. “Sure,” he says out loud, picking up his own beer. “So this is gonna be the first time I see this movie sober.”

Natasha laughs. “We can make a drinking game out of it,” she says, padding into the living room and shrugging out of her coat and scarf. Underneath, she's wearing a soft dove gray sweater that falls just to the middle of her thighs. The neck is wide enough that her collarbones are bare, aside from a silver chain with some kind of pendant James can't see. “Can I just leave these here?” she asks, draping her coat over the back of his armchair.

James shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, it's not like I have a coat rack or anything.” He grins. “Sorry.”

“Oh please,” Natasha says, and goes to flop over on the couch. “As if anyone under the age of fifty has a coat rack anymore.” James is obscurely grateful for the way that she's deliberately making herself comfortable in his apartment. It makes things less awkward. Almost comfortable.

James leaves his bottle on the coffee table and goes to turn on the movie. He's got a fifty-inch flat screen TV that he bought for himself—he saved for four months—and a box set of Tarantino DVDs that was a joint present from Steve and Sam, who were apparently under the impression James liked Tarantino a hell of a lot more than he actually did. But it's the thought that counts, and he figures since he's got a DVD player he might as well have stuff to play in it.

“I like your place,” Natasha says as he's sliding in the first _Kill Bill_ disk. “It's big. Comfy.”

“It's not usually this clean,” James points out and grabs the remote, turning the lights off and moving to the couch. Natasha's placed herself squarely in the middle but the couch is big enough that there's plenty of room for James on either side. He goes on her left and sits down against the armrest. She scoots over to give him more space. “Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” Natasha replies dryly, and James presses play before grabbing his beer. He should have made popcorn or something, but at least he can occupy himself with sipping at his Corona (and silently judging Natasha's taste in beer).

They're silent for the first few moments as the movie begins. Then Natasha glances over at him. “I forgot how violent this movie is,” she comments.

James glances over at her. “Tarantino,” he points out. When Natasha doesn't look convinced, he adds, “We can change it.”

“No, it's fine,” Natasha says and turns back to the movie. James watches her for a few seconds longer. The glow of the screen reflects off her cheekbones, brow, the bridge of her nose. He turns back to the TV.

A few minutes later, Natasha comments, “I always liked her. Copperhead, I mean—well, both of them, really. I used to practice the moves alone in my room, I mean, I was _sixteen_...”

James looks at her, trying to imagine Natasha as a sixteen year old with braces executing high kicks and punches in her bedroom. He laughs.

“Once I broke a lamp. A _lava_ lamp, even,” Natasha says, turning to grin at him. Then she hesitates. “I forgot to warn you I'm one of those people who can't shut up while watching a movie,” she says with an apologetic smile. “Just tell me if you want me to shut up.”

“I don't mind,” James says. “Steve's like that too. I'm used to it.” With Steve, he'd complain, but he doesn't know Natasha half as well so it's not like he can predict what she's about to say before the words leave her mouth. Steve, on the other hand...

Natasha's smile turns relieved. “Oh, good,” she says. “Bruce hated it.”

“Bruce?” James repeats, frowning.

“My ex,” Natasha says, and the words tumble like blocks of ice into the space between them, but she's already turning back to watch the movie and the set of her shoulders is tense enough that James can tell this isn't really a subject she wants to discuss any further.

He takes a gulp of beer and says, “Well, I don't mind,” and for that Natasha shoots him a quick grin.

James is mostly _not_ overanalyzing the situation—a surprise in itself—when the doorbell rings for the pizza. “I'll get it,” he says when Natasha swings her legs out from under her. “Don't worry about it.” He sees the mild worry in her eyes but honestly, he's done this plenty of times. He'd hardly be qualified to live on his own if he couldn't at least deal with ordering pizza. He takes the boxes and poses them on the kitchen counter before returning to sign the receipt and tip the delivery driver, whose face he recognizes somewhere but whose name escapes him at the moment.

“Date night?” the driver asks, grinning suggestively as James hands him a five dollar bill.

“Something like that,” he says, and shuts the door. He brings the pizza boxes to the coffee table, then goes back to the kitchen to grab plates. Or at least paper towels. “Don't worry about it,” he tells Natasha when she pauses the film, but she gets up anyway.

“At least let me grab myself another beer,” she says with a grin.

James ends up deciding on paper towels _and_ plates, because there's a reason there's a dishwasher in his kitchen and it's not just to look nice. Natasha is twisting the cap off the bottle of whiskey. When she sees James watching her, she grins and gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Hey, I got it. I should at least try it.”

“Pour me a glass?” James asks. “Not too much. With Coke. Please.”

Natasha's smile widens. “Yes, sir,” she says. “Coming right up.”

She rejoins James in the living room a few moments later, holding two liquor glasses she must have found in his cabinets. They're filled nearly to the top and as he takes his glass James realizes he doesn't know exactly how much whiskey she added. Which isn't necessarily a _bad_ thing. He'll just go slow.

“This is _perfect_ ,” Natasha says as she opens a pizza box and takes two slices at once.

“I thought they had better pizza in New York,” James points out. “Steve always brags about it.”

“Well, getting pizza, liquor, _and_ good company all at once is a rare thing,” Natasha replies, turning her smile onto him. James feels himself blush and takes a larger-than-average swallow of his drink in an effort to hide his reaction. It's a miracle he doesn't choke. “When I came here,” she adds, returning her focus to her pizza, “I wasn't sure whether I wanted to spend all my time sitting in my room alone or whether I wanted to get drunk and party every night. This is a nice compromise.”

“Especially since we don't have much of a club scene,” James points out dryly, though he does feel himself warming at her words. Or maybe that's the whiskey.

“You know what I mean,” Natasha says and reaches out with her foot to nudge him in the thigh. The gesture surprises James enough that he almost spills his drink. He looks at her. She grins unapologetically.

“If I spill this,” James says, trying to look serious and threatening as he lifts his drink a bit, “I'm going to aim for you.”

“Stains don't show up on black fabric,” Natasha says smugly and nudges him again. She's got her back resting against the armrest and both feet stretched across the couch with her pizza plate in her lap, facing James like she's totally forgotten they're supposed to be watching a movie.

“You never know. I've been told I've got an unnatural skill at ruining clothing.”

By that, James means that Aunt Rita is constantly exasperated by his inability (or rather, unwillingness) to separate his laundry out by colors and wash them accordingly. Natasha, however, takes it a little differently: “Pick-up line,” she says. “Another one. You seriously don't plan them?”

James hopes he isn't too red. “I didn't mean it like _that_ ,” he says quickly.

“Then you should really start developing your untapped genius,” Natasha suggests. “You'll be the most popular guy around.”

“It clearly only comes out when you're around,” James replies dryly. “So whenever I wanna talk to girls, I'll just bring you along.”

“Yes,” Natasha says. “With me at your side, you can probably get a date in no time.” There's something strange in her tone—James wouldn't call it bitterness, but he also wouldn't call it 'nice', and he decides not to dwell on it.

“Cheers, then,” he says, and takes another sip of his drink before putting it down and getting himself a slice of pizza. As he places it on his plate, he gives Natasha a sidelong glance. “So do you want to continue the movie or are you pretty much done?”

She blinks, looking a little startled, and glances almost guiltily towards the TV. “Oh! Oops. I totally forgot.”

James is about to say that he doesn't mind if they don't watch the movie, as long as it's not because she's fed up and walking out of his apartment. But Natasha is shifting away from him and towards the TV as she hits the play button on the remote. Instead of enjoying their conversation James gets to enjoy, more or less, the sight of Natasha continuing to mechanically eat pizza as the fights on the screen become increasingly ludicrous and bloody. It's gratifying to finally have a friend who, like him, can watch gory movies and eat at the same time. But James is beginning to realize why Sam and Steve always found his ability so disconcerting. Disconcerting and a little bit gross.

Though with Natasha, it's almost cute, and he decides to call her out on it. “Not the queasy type?” he asks as the fight onscreen evolves into something that's closer to a massacre.

“What?” Natasha asks, glancing at him and then back at the screen. Then she gives him an answering smile. “I don't think so, no. I mean, I've seen worse.

James raises his eyebrows.

“Not in real life!” Natasha adds quickly. “On TV, usually. Movies. Though my ex is an ER nurse. And my foster dad was a police officer for a bit. I think.”

“Now _that's_ a story,” James prompts.

“I know,” Natasha says, ignoring the screaming carnage on the television screen as she turns to face him again. “But he never talks about it. Even when I come right out and ask him directly. He just changes the subject. Trust me, I'm as curious as you are.”

“More, probably,” James acknowledges. “Googled him yet?”

“A little. But I haven't done, you know, a _deep_ search. I figure there has to be a reason that he never talks about it, and there's probably some things where it's better not to know.” She shrugs and makes her wry face.

“I get it,” James says, and he does. His dad never talked about any of that kind of stuff either, even though he'd been a soldier and, James was pretty sure, had seen some things. Though now he was dead, so James supposes he'll never know for sure.

Natasha wrinkles her nose a little at him. “How about you? You're not complaining about the gore, either.”

“Never minded it,” James says, and then pauses. “No, I take that back. I'm okay with most things, but it took me a while, you know, after the accident.” There's something clear and receptive about Natasha's gaze and James finds himself saying, even though he knows he shouldn't, “I made them show me pictures. Of me. The way they found the car. The way my arm looked.”

“James,” Natasha begins.

Boldly, maybe stupidly, James puts his plate down on his lap and reaches out to give Natasha a fake punch in the shoulder, nudging her lightly with his knuckles. “Don't let me be a downer,” he says. “That's the last thing I should be practicing. Can we work on the pick-up lines instead?”

Her smile, when it returns, is brilliant. “I'd like that,” she says. Maybe it's the whiskey but James is having a hard time thinking of reasons he shouldn't be trying to figure out what it means.

\- - -

They're twenty minutes into _Kill Bill 2_ when Natasha says, "I really want another whiskey and Coke."

James glances over at her. The pizza boxes are mostly abandoned now, even though they've only managed to finish the equivalent of a whole pizza between them. Natasha is sprawled out against one armrest and he's leaning against the other, his empty glass dangling lightly from his fingers. "I can get you more, if you want," he offers.

"No, I mean..." Natasha says, and glances at him before leaning forward to grab the remote and pause the film. James frowns, slightly confused, as she turns to him. "Look, is it—I don't want to impose or anything, honestly, but would it be alright if I spend the night? I can take the couch. I just figure, if I want to keep drinking I definitely shouldn't drive home, and I really can't walk..."

She looks surprisingly awkward about this whole thing, and for the first time James realizes that she might not be as instinctively poised and graceful as she seems to him. That maybe her easy friendliness is, just like James's, punctuated by periods of awkward uncertainty. That she's tiptoeing around him as much as he's tiptoeing around her. "Of course," he replies, surprised. "But I'm taking the couch."

"No way," Natasha says, and looks relieved. "But let's fight about it later, okay?" She reaches over and holds out her hand for James's cup. "We're not nearly tipsy enough for that."

"I'm not tipsy at all," James points out as he hands Natasha his glass, though the lazy smile he's giving Natasha might say otherwise. He recalls that he's not sure how much whiskey he's actually had, since it's hard to taste through the Coke. There's gotta be a rule you learn somewhere, probably in college or at parties, about never letting people make your drinks for you. But he trusts Natasha. And he can already feel that even if he does get drunk tonight, it won't be the bad kind of drunk. He's much too content for that right now.

After a short while, she returns and passes him his drink. When James sips it, it tastes the same as the last one. "Thanks," he says.

She smiles at him as she grabs the remote again and presses play. "Thanks in advance for letting me sleep over," she replies over the jangling music from the TV.

Twenty minutes later, Natasha looks over at him again. James has been alternating glances between her and the television screen as he sips his drinks, and when he meets her eyes and sees her questioning gaze, he tilts his head a little bit. "Yeah?"

"This is stupid," Natasha announces. She's already finished her drink, and she fidgets with it, turning the glass around in her hands as she shifts to face him.

"I won't be able to agree with you on that until you tell me what you're talking about," James points out. Onscreen, Uma Thurman screams loudly as she beats against the lid of her coffin. James wishes they'd left a light on so he could get a better look at Natasha's expression.

"Right, yeah, okay," Natasha says, and it's strange to see her so visibly at a loss for words. Right now, she sounds like James feels. "I just was wondering, you know, if you, I mean, God," she says and laughs. "Two years and I'm already so out of practice."

James waits and takes a long drink, because he can feel his gut twisting a little in anxiety and he doesn't want to show how much of an idiot he's being right now.

"Can I just... sit close to you?" Natasha blurts finally. "I promise I won't do anything weird. I just... think it would be nice. If you don't want to, it's fine."

It takes James a few seconds to gather his thoughts enough to respond. Then, because he feels Natasha withdrawing, senses the moment ending, he blurts, “Yeah, of course, I mean—no problem.” He's blushing. At least, his face feels hot. He takes a large swallow of his drink, nearly finishing it, and then leans forward to put the glass on the coffee table. “C'mere.” He lifts his arm up a little.

Natasha smiles, relief clear on her face even in the dark, and moves across the couch, flopping against him. James lets his arm rest around her shoulders. She's warm against him and her sweater is soft. Her elbow digs uncomfortably into his ribs. It's nice, actually. It feels almost familiar.

“This is nice,” Natasha says after a beat, and turns a little to look up at him, accidentally elbowing him in the gut.

“Ow,” James says.

“Sorry!” Natasha replies quickly, immediately repentant. Then her shoulders start to move under his arm and he realizes she's laughing. “This is ridiculous,” she says, looking up at him. “We're like a couple of awkward teenagers.”

James laughs as well and moves his hand to Natasha's hair, brushing it lightly with his fingers, careful not to mess up her bun. “I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure I never stopped being like an awkward teenager,” he points out.

“Come on, you're not doing so bad,” Natasha replies, making that twisty expression with her lips again before flopping back to lean against him.

“If you say so,” James replies, unconvinced, and watches Natasha's attention return to the television screen. He looks down at the top of her head, absently running his fingers along her hair again, and thinks about what he could say. What he probably should say, like, _I have no idea what we're doing right now and I'm feeling almost dizzy and while maybe some of that's the alcohol I also think it's because of you_ , or, _you smell nice what kind of perfume is that?_ or _it seems like you like me but there's gotta be a mistake somewhere, what are we even doing here, help_.

But he swallows and doesn't say all that because onscreen Uma Thurman's character is breaking out of her coffin and heading on yet another round of revenge killing. Note to self, James thinks. A _Kill Bill_ marathon is not exactly the most romantic movie you can watch.

Natasha takes a deep breath and lets it out. James feels her shoulders move under his arm again. Then she twists to look back up at him. "How are you doing?"

James blinks. "Uh? Fine?" he responds, a little surprised by the question.

Natasha frowns, her eyes searching his face for something. James doesn't know if she finds it or not, and after a moment, during which he has to try very hard not to hold his breath, she turns back to the movie.

Her hair is soft and she really does smell nice. James wonders what Steve would say if he could see him right now. Nothing, probably. He'd just be laughing at how James is suddenly (always, really) so awkward and pathetic. Maybe he'd urge James to make a move. But it's not that easy. Honestly.

Natasha seems content to remain focused on the movie for a while, and James has almost managed to relax and get a handle on his feelings—by quickly, brutally reining them in—when she turns around next, at the part where Uma Thurman's character is plucking out her opponent's eye. "Look," she says abruptly, and then stops. "Hang on. I want another drink. Should I grab one for you too?"

James shifts, moving his arm so she can get up more easily. "Sure," he says.

Natasha gives him a thin smile and grabs both of their glasses, moving back into the kitchen once more. "Be right back." When she returns, she hands James his glass and makes sure he's got a good grip on it before grabbing the remote and pausing the movie. "Sorry. The screaming was getting a little... yeah." She sits down a few inches away from him. It might be out of awkwardness, but James chooses to interpret it as an intentional courtesy. He can't drink if he has an arm around her shoulders, and he's glad he doesn't have to deal with that frustration.

"What's up?" James asks, and then takes a fairly big sip of his drink, because he doesn't know if he actually wants to deal with hearing the answer.

Natasha mimics his actions, tossing back a gulp. "I need a little help here," she says after she swallows and makes a face. (James wonders how much liquor she's put in her own glass. His drink tastes the same as it has before.) "I've been trying my best, but—come _on_ , James."

"What?" James says, and he knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that it's the wrong response. "I mean," he adds quickly, as Natasha frowns, "I don't know what you want. Honestly. Or I'd help you with it."

"My problem is that I don't know what you want," Natasha announces. James wants to reach out and smooth the crease that's appearing between her eyebrows. But then he'd need to put down his glass. And he's not sure if Natasha wants that. This. Him.

He decides to voice that thought. "Well, I don't want you to be unhappy," he says. "I don't want you to leave, either," he adds, because that seems important too.

“Okay,” Natasha says dryly, inclining her head a little. “Now that I know what you _don't_ want, can you tell me what you _do_ want?”

Technically, James understands what he's asking, but he doesn't see how the difference is actually important. Knowing what he doesn't want is basically the same as knowing what he does want, right? He wants her to stay, and he wants her to be happy. He says as much.

Natasha gives a sigh. “James. For at least a week, I've been trying—God, this is so embarrassing when I actually say it. I like you, James, and for about a week now I've been trying to figure out whether or not you like me back. And I think you might?” She winces a little. "Maybe. I don't know, and I'm sorry if I'm wrong, but..." She rotates her glass in her hands. "You're really not giving me much to go on, you know."

"Oh," James says, and all of their interactions over the past week suddenly slot into place. Everything that he's been trying to ignore, everything he's tried to brush away because there's no way, it's not possible, she would never want someone like him. Except, apparently, it's completely possible. " _Oh_ ," James says again, and swallows. "I..."

"Come on," Natasha says again, looking up at him. She's wearing a guarded expression but behind it, James imagines he can read vulnerability. "It's a yes or no question, James."

This can't be so bad, James thinks. Okay, yes, it could go terribly and awfully wrong but the important thing to keep in mind right now is that Natasha likes him, _really_ likes him, and he needs to respond before he loses his chance and ruins things before they can actually begin. With a heady feeling, like he's just launched himself off a cliff, James leans forward and offers her a slow and crooked grin. "I'm trying to find a 'yes' that says how _much_ I like you," he replies. "Or working out how I can kiss you without spilling my drink."

Natasha's smile is sudden and breathless and she scoots forward to take his glass gently from his hand. “There,” she says. Their faces are less than a foot apart. Eight inches. Or six, James thinks, and then realizes he's desperately clinging to making a stupid mental measurement in order to distract himself from what's actually happening in front of him. He swallows.

He knows he's hesitating too long and the realization needles at him, but at the same time, he can't bring himself to bridge the gap between them. What if he lunges forward too fast and spills the drinks that Natasha's holding? More than that, what if Natasha's only saying all this because she's drunk? She _did_ just talk about her ex, after all.

_Come on_ , says the voice in his head that sounds just like Steve. But it takes Natasha actually voicing the thought—“James, come _on_ ”—for him to act.

He takes a breath, then leans forward and closes the gap between them. Their lips smash together awkwardly, and his nose hits hers. It's probably a little painful. It's painful on his part, anyway, and Natasha is laughing against his mouth.

“Okay,” she says. “That was something that would have probably worked in a chick flick. I'll give you points for that.” She leans forward and gives him a peck on the lips, which ends up smashing their noses together awkwardly yet again, before leaning to the side and depositing both glasses on the coffee table. “There, that's better.”

“Probably,” James says, and he's smiling in spite of himself and in spite of the overly loud pounding of his heart, which is probably obvious enough at this point that Natasha can hear it. He feels like he can't breathe. “Should we try again?”

“Oh, yes,” Natasha replies with a smile and scoots close to him once again. She's practically in his lap, and James reaches out to place his hand on her shoulder. As she moves closer, he slides his hand around to cradle the back of her neck. This time when they kiss, they manage to work out a good angle so they don't smash either noses or teeth. Natasha sucks at his lower lip. They're using tongues, God, _tongues_ , and then Natasha's pulling away, but not far, so that she's still practically in his lap.

“Wow,” he says, and smiles against her mouth.

“You're not half bad yourself,” Natasha agrees with a grin. His hand is still resting on the back of her neck, his thumb and forefinger buried in the soft, flyaway strands of hair that escape her messy bun. Her face might be flushed, but it's hard to tell in the dim light of the living room.

James brings his hand around to run his thumb along her lower lip. She smiles. “You're gorgeous,” he says like an idiot, and her smile grows wider.

“If this is what I've got to look forward with you, I don't have any complaints,” Natasha jokes, and reaches up to touch his arm, running her fingers lightly along his sleeve. “Can we, I mean, you weren't _too_ invested in the movie, were you?”

“Not at all,” James says with a grin. “I've seen it plenty of times before.”

“Oh good, me too,” Natasha replies and laces their fingers together, squeezing a little. James spends a a few moments looking at her, taking everything in, and noticing that she has a very light dusting of freckles across her nose. He wonders if they were more pronounced when she was younger as he moves in to kiss her again.

Natasha leans in to kiss him back, pressing up to him, and James moves his hand further into her hair, irreparably messing up her bun. It would be good to take the hair tie out all together, James thinks, and works on that until the elastic gets snagged in some incomprehensible tangle and Natasha pulls away.

"Ow, geez," she says, wincing and sitting back a little bit to work the tie out of its tangle.

"Sorry," James says, and Natasha laughs.

"It happens all the time," she replies, running both hands through her hair as it cascades past her neck and shoulders. "Once I pulled out the tie too fast and had to cut it out." She grins at him.

James smiles back and shifts a little, bringing his feet up onto the couch so he doesn't have to awkwardly twist around to kiss her. Natasha reaches out and touches the top button on his plaid shirt, glancing up at James before undoing it. James is wearing a white cotton shirt underneath, nothing exciting, and after undoing the second button, Natasha moves her hand to his shoulder, the good one, and says, "Can I ask—how do you get your shirts on? Are they buttoned already, or...?"

"Button hook," James replies, but this isn't actually what he wants to be discussing right now. In fact, he doesn't particularly want to discuss anything. There are so many more interesting things they can do with their mouths. "It's pretty simple. I'll show you sometime. But not now. Come here," and Natasha's laughing and moving close to him again, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she keeps one hand on his shoulder and puts one on his side, and they're kissing again.

Everything turns into a sort of pleasant haze where James is enjoying the hell out of himself but also kind of can't breathe because his heart is beating too fast and he can't believe this is happening—so maybe part of that pleasantly dizzy feeling comes from simple oxygen deprivation—until suddenly Natasha slides a little closer and moves her hand to his stomach and he slides his hand down her back and all of a sudden there's a new urgency in their movements. A need. And then, without James really knowing how they ended up like this, he's lying on his back on the couch and Natasha's on top of him, straddling him and sliding her hands up underneath his shirt, and he has absolutely no complaints about their situation. But as Natasha touches his bare skin, she stops. "Oh my God. We need to—wow,” she says and takes a breath, sitting up a little bit and running both hands through her hair. “We can't do this.”

That pleasant floating feeling disappears in an instant and James is left with his too-fast heartbeat and a plummeting feeling in the pit of his stomach as he sits up a little, scooting out from under her. This is the part where she says it's too much, she can't be with him, this is all too weird and sorry, if he had two arms she'd maybe consider it, _but_... “What?” he asks.

“I just—it's Bruce,” Natasha says, and the turn the conversation takes is surprising enough that James is distracted out of his impending anxiety attack.

“What?” he repeats, but it's a little less afraid and a little more offended and confused. In terms of his ability to function in this situation, it's more or less an improvement, James thinks.

“My ex,” Natasha says, and then laughs. “Oh God. I'm being one of _those_ people, aren't I? I promise I'm not still in love with him,” she tells James. He must look appropriately skeptical, because she flushes a little. “I _promise_. That's one of the reasons we broke up. I realized I wanted him more as a friend, not a... not more than friends, anyway.”

James isn't exactly sure what to do with this information. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to sound like normal to make out with someone and then stop in the middle to talk about your ex-boyfriend. Hell, maybe it is. He doesn't know.

Natasha moves off him in order to curl up on the couch, drawing her knees up and leaning against James's side. Instinctively, James puts his arm around her. “So I don't have feelings for him,” she says. “But we were together for two years. We lived together. And it's... been an adjustment. The break-up. So I just..." She takes a breath and looks up at James. "I don't want to rush into something new so quickly."

"So I'm the rebound?" James asks dryly, raising his eyebrow.

"No!" Natasha says quickly, then pauses. "Maybe. I mean, no. No, not really, but I just want to... be sure. Because I like you, um, a lot. A surprising amount." She gives a breathless laugh.

James feels that cold and anxious knot in his stomach slowly begin to relax. "Right," he says, squeezing her shoulders a little. "For the record, I've kind of liked you since I saw you at the bus station."

"I'd been sitting on a bus for eight hours, James, please," Natasha says, feigning disgust, but her eyes are laughing when she looks at him. "I was disgusting."

"You had nice lipstick," James points out, because it's true, and he feels like she should know. Not that she's not already aware.

Natasha perks up. "You think? I bought that one right before I left the city. New color."

"It looks good on you," James assures her seriously. "Very hot."

"Good," Natasha says and then laughs. "Oh my God," she says. "We're talking like twelve year old girls at a sleepover." She leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and when James turns his head to catch her lips with his, they kiss for real.

It's James who pulls away first this time. "I don't think I can stay up as late as a twelve year old girl at a sleepover, though." Not if his sister Becca's sleepovers were any indication. "It's got to be, what, nearly one a.m. now? I'm going to pass out here soon."

"I suppose we have a few more responsibilities than twelve year old girls," Natasha agrees. "And need more sleep." She laughs, pressing her face to James's shoulder. "God, we're old."

"Speak for yourself," James says, leaning down to press his lips to her hair.

"Well, how old are _you_?" Natasha demands, looking up at him. Then she pauses and blushes enough that James can see it even in the half-glow from the television. "I just realized I don't actually know. Please tell me you're not, like, twenty. Oh God. I should have asked already."

Natasha's chagrin is so pronounced that James has to lean back and laugh. "I'm twenty-four," he says when he finally gets control of himself. "But I'll be twenty-five next month, so don't worry about it."

"Oh," Natasha says. "Well. Good."

Her relief is evident enough that James laughs again, then presses a kiss to her forehead, which is soft beneath his lips. "You're still older, though," he points out, and in response, Natasha jabs him in the side. "But you hardly look your age!" he amends, and laughs as Natasha pokes him once more.

She wrinkles her nose at him, then makes a show of tossing her hair over her shoulder. "True. I suppose I need my beauty sleep. I'm taking the couch.”

She says it so quickly that James nearly misses it. “Wait,” he says. “No. Hang on, _I'm_ taking the couch.”

Natasha gives him a withering look. “Your house, your bed.”

“And _you're_ the guest,” James points out, raising his eyebrows. Aunt Rita raised him to be a gentleman and this isn't a situation where he'll fold.

Natasha heaves a sigh. “Oh my God, James,” she says, but she's laughing even as she feigns exasperation. “Fine. How's this—we'll both take the bed.”

The proposition is tempting. Really tempting, actually, but also unexpected. “I thought you wanted to take things slow?” he points out. Because the more he thinks about it—and the more he works the alcohol out of his system—he's realizing that he wants to take things slow too. It's been a while (well, a year and a half? Two years?) since he's done anything with anyone, and he hasn't had an actual _relationship_ since high school. Diving into this would probably be a disaster. And even if it turned out alright, James knows he would probably find a way to make it a disaster.

“We can sleep in the same bed without magically having sex,” Natasha points out dryly. She holds up her hands. “I promise I'll keep my hands to myself.”

James grins. “I won't hold you to that,” he comments, but the arrangement works for him. Reluctantly, he pulls away from Natasha and stands. “Do you need, I dunno, pajamas or anything?”

Natasha holds out her arms, showing off the soft gray sweater that she's wearing. “I think I'm good in this,” she says with a smile. “I've slept in it before.”

“Right,” James says and picks up the remote to turn off the TV for real. “It looks comfy.”

“It is,” Natasha agrees, standing up and picking up their liquor glasses. She takes one last drink—out of _his_ glass, James realizes, though he can hardly be mad about it—then goes to put them in the kitchen. James stacks the pizza boxes one on top of the other and follows her. As she rinses out the glasses and places them in the dishwasher, he puts the boxes down on the counter, opens the refrigerator, picks up the boxes again, and puts them on one of the empty shelves. He needs to go shopping, he thinks, shutting the fridge. For someone who works at the grocery store, he has surprisingly little in the way of groceries.

(He can't believe Natasha saw him working the register in his stupid cashier shirt and still agreed to get coffee with him. Maybe, when they've been together a bit longer, he can ask her what the hell she was thinking. And that's a startling thought in itself— _when_ they've been together longer. Not _if_ they get together in the first place.)

James pads to the bathroom to brush his teeth and works off his button-down, leaving on his undershirt. After a moment's thought, he takes off his belt and his jeans, but leaves on his boxers. Is he wearing enough clothing? Probably, he thinks. It's the underwear equivalent of shorts and a t-shirt. He looks at himself disbelievingly in the mirror—this whole night still feels a little surreal, too good to be true—runs a hand through his hair, and heads to the bedroom.

Natasha's already found it, and is already sitting on the side of the bed, putting her hair up again. “This is nice,” she says. “Your place is a lot cleaner than mine.”

James looks around. There's a pile of shirts on his chair, and his desk is piled with papers and a few textbooks from his online courses. One of his dresser drawers is halfway open and overflowing. “Really?” he asks.

“Yeah. You _really_ don't want to go into my bedroom,” Natasha says. “Which side of the bed should I take?”

James does a quick mental calculation as he turns off the light, figuring out logistics, and says, “I'll take the left side. I only need one pillow.” He's got three on his bed, two for his head and one that he uses for his shoulder if it gets achy, like when it's too cold or about to rain.

“Well, I'm giving you two,” Natasha replies, piling up two pillows on the left side of the bed and putting one on the right. Her tone brooks no argument, but as James sits on the bed, he casually pushes one pillow off the pile, putting it in between them. Natasha makes a disgusted noise. “You're impossible,” she says.

James laughs, swinging his legs up and getting under the covers. “You started it.”

While he wasn't looking, Natasha has already gotten cozy, laying on her stomach with her nose buried in her pillow. “Smells nice,” she says, her voice muffled, and then turns to blink up at him. “God. I really didn't need that last sip of whiskey.”

James laughs. “No comment,” he says, yawning as he lays his head down.

“Shut up,” Natasha says, and before James can jokingly protest that he didn't say anything, really, she worms her way closer to him. “Is this okay?”

James moves a little closer, so that she can pillow her head on his arm. He feels her touch his chest lightly. “Can't complain,” he says and knows he's smiling like an idiot, the kind of happy, stupid smile that just stays on your face without conscious effort. In fact, it's going to take him conscious effort to quit smiling and actually go to sleep.

“Your enthusiasm is noted,” Natasha replies dryly, and when James glances down at her, she's smiling too. But then the smile is replaced by a jaw-cracking yawn and she shifts a little, rolling onto her side and pulling the covers up high over her shoulders. She squeezes her eyes shut. “I'm exhausted. Good night.”

James stays awake longer, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. It's never been easy for him to go straight to sleep and tonight is especially difficult, because he's hyperaware of Natasha in bed next to him—her weight, her warmth, the gentle sound of her breathing. He wishes he has two hands if only so that at this moment, he could be running his fingers through her hair. But it's just a passing thought, not a tangible feeling of absence like on his bad days. Today was a good day. This week was a good week.

Okay, James thinks and makes himself close his eyes. He can do this.

**Author's Note:**

> // _to be continued_


End file.
